


Pathetically Presentable

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [79]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Instability, Past Torture, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26593657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Warly's first experience with the Constants mainland Winter, after having left the tropical islands and that version of hellish limbo he's grown so familiar with.
Series: DS Extras [79]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Pathetically Presentable

**Author's Note:**

> Had an odd dream, decided to write it.

Warly was not at all used to Winter.

Not winter, of course, plain old winter with light snowfalls or thin ice sheets, a bit of a cold breeze and nip to the chilly air. Where he had once lived had very little to do with the snow season.

But here, in the Constant, as he now knew the name of the dreadful place, the Winters were far, far harsher. The mainland was unforgiving, and he was not at all familiar with its seasonal threats.

The tropical islands, hazardous and horrible and thoroughly stressing as they had been, had also been what Warly has been calling "home" for months, years, _decades_ if he was being pessimistic. The warm waters only grew warmer when the volcano grew active, even the thunderous storms that had lightening chasing the very boats he sailed still held that warm, humid sticky air to every breath, and his residency there had made him getting rather comfortable out over the lukewarm waters.

But he was not there anymore, and the oceans here were far saltier, far denser, deeper, _colder._

At the worst of times, Warly found himself missing the tropical islands. At the best of times, it was what memories he still had in his possession that he'd focus onto.

Thoughts of his family, of Maman Angeline, of his life outside of this limbo of lands, and even remembering his friends, the one's he's gone through thick and thin with, helped keep Warly from just utterly losing it.

Because the heavy snowfall came in far faster than he had ever thought he'd see of it, no matter the horror stories he's since been told, and the wolves here were voracious and somehow _worse_ than the sea hounds and crocodiles, and hearing tales of a giant beast beholding one eye and clawed antlers raised to touch the sky chipped away at what little control he's worked so hard to gain upon the scattered isles that being here was obviously detrimental to his sound mind and sound health.

Even when the camps here were bustling with people, those he vaguely remembered meeting once upon a time in clearer blue waters and others he's never ever laid eyes upon, even when surrounded by those who treated him as kindly as he could hope for, Warly found himself missing everything that he had once wished to leave behind.

A monkey's paw wish, maybe, and his superstitions made it awfully ironic when one of the friends he ended up leaving behind was an actual true _monkey._

Wilbur wouldn't have liked this place, Warly concluded early on. There were supposedly apes in the deep caves, but the monkey he personally knew was more attuned to the sun and sandy beaches and palm trees than to...whatever this mainland accounted for.

Maybe it was a twisted fate that he ended up here; none of the others would have fared well, the sea swells and waves he saw from the flooded coastlines were rough, jagged with riptides and harsh currents, and the towering sea stacks and tangling clusters of bull kelp would not do a single person boat or surfboard any world of good. He, being the only one with still shaky sea legs and a rational fear of the ocean depths and what lay within, waiting, had to have been the best choice to end up here.

The odd living plant, stinking like a mandrake and mildew and fresh earth, those large glowing eyes that spoke of something far from human or hideous shadow, spoke of a world above the clouds, of a home they left behind to end up here, filled with pigmen and bugs and tangling jungles. The sparse vocabulary Wormwood had made translation a bit of a toughie, but they were exceptionally creative with somewhat odd charades.

Walani would have liked them, Warly thought. Wilbur would have probably tried to bite them first, ask questions later, as the monkey was more often to do when meeting new people...or, er, beings of other dimensions.

He found himself doing that a lot nowadays, thinking to his island friends and drawing connections that he would never be able to confirm or deny. Walani would be at odds with Winona for awhile before suddenly becoming fast friends, Wilbur would be an absolute menace to the mechanical android Wx78 but buddies in arms with the ever friendly, ever unique Wes, Woodlegs would be teasingly detrimental to the strict Wickerbottom and her schooling of the children while debating long and hard with the lumberminded Woodie on boat craftsmanship-

It went on and on, when Warly was left to his own thoughts as he did his best to keep up the work, fit his place into this odd, frankly way too crowded place of the main camp. 

He hoped it wasn't all too obvious, how dearly he missed his friends.

Walani would've told him to go with the flow, eventually he'll get back to them or they'll make their way here, but Warly doubted even his own self assurances when it came to such imaginings. The oceans here were vast, freezing cold, and dropped off into logically unsound, unimaginable falls that crashed up fog and clouds of vapor, the bottom swells of the farther reaching oceans coated in a darkness that no light, sun, lantern, or miners hat, could penetrate.

Wilson told him he tried to head out there, once. Set up a ship designed to take on a waterfall, as faulty as it had been, boat patches and jerky supplies and light sources to last days upon days.

Told Warly that the darkness out there was different, that not even the Grue treaded that thick foggy land, how the waves eventually died and his boat stalled and no matter which way he paddled the dark trapped him with no sign of a world outside of his own head.

Eventually Wilson had to admit defeat; the dark did not come for him when he extinguished all light, somehow seeing the still waves crystal clearly, and instead had to forcefully drown himself to get back.

What an awful fate; Warly couldn't even imagine an instance where he had to turn to suicide to get away from something unstoppable and horrible. The tropical islands were forgiving in that aspect; this place though, he's been consistently told otherwise.

Now, in the throes of his first unforgivingly freezing Winter, Warly can see why that was so.

It was perhaps worse, that he wasn't even near that main bustling camp of competent hands and minds. Deep down, he knew he would have been far safer back there than in some little spot in the middle of the thick woods, still unfamiliar with the area and sketched out map and faulty compasses.

But the snows had come down early, and Wilson had led them through the first sudden blizzard to what he called a midpoint 'safe house', though of course there was no house, and it was assuredly not safe.

Only one tent had survived the ensuing hound attack, chests destroyed and crockpot toppled and shattered by the massive beasts, and while Warlys own person cookware came out of the fight just fine Wilson…had not.

Warly has seen death before, a few times. It was always a terrible thing, deeply distressing, and while he still did not know the man very well it was a traumatic experience to stand by and watch his so newly made friend die.

Even more discomforting, to have to do so with the former Nightmare King hovering nearby.

When he had first stumbled through that rose laden portal, confused and dazed and extremely disorientated, Warly had nearly fainted when seeing the demon for the first time since his last death. He had near expected some horridly familiar words to be hissed out at him, a thick stench of cigars that no longer brought far more pleasant thoughts of his family and nearly forgotten childhood, cherished memories now corrupted by this towering fanged creature that had tortured him, tortured his friends, and now for some godawful reason had been _right there to greet him sadistically once again-_

Except that hadn't been the case, not at all. It had taken a few days, the first few spent skittish and wracked with nerves if he even so much as glimpsed the former monster, and then easing into avoiding any of the former Kings haunts and hurriedly excusing himself from any sort of interaction involving the demon.

He may look to be an old, very old man, posh and stretched tall and thin enough for a light breeze to carry him and his raspingly deep, wavering voice away, but Warly could not shake the past off him as easily as some of these other survivors seemed to. The ghoulish nature, of catching sight of the demon wandering the edges of the night from the firepit or attending to the foul dark magic devices that had somehow been allowed to be built within the camp walls, it always sent an unnerving feeling up Warlys spine no matter how well off he was doing mentally.

He still remembered sharing horror stories with Walani, trying to make sense, figure out the story of this world and how, _why_ anyone was out here, and even Woodlegs had once spoken up, sitting in front of campfires set in the slow dark nights of the mild season, usually so toughened and steadfast voice going a hint unsteady in recounting some horrible thing that had happened to him while traversing the waves all alone. 

Wilbur told no stories, but the monkey huddled close whenever the name was spoken aloud, eyes wide and looking every which way for a threat that could be there but unseen, and these memories kept Warly on his toes since the moment he had realized he shared a living space with the former demon King.

Fate was unfathomably cruel, in this new Constant, and Warly had watched the only man he fully trusted on this mainland die, leaving him to the company of that which he never wished to even think of.

Maxwell, for his part, had been rather quiet for the next few days. Warly may be new to this place, but it was still obvious enough to know that, whatever level of kindness or mercy or what have you that was shown to the demon, the bulk seemed to come from the now dead self proclaimed scientist.

The snows only came down thicker, the towering pine trees laden with the stuff and the world shifted into a white and gray mass of unrecognizable silhouettes, and only this shallow dug out camp held through the storms; Warly parsed over the now blood stained maps they had on hand, dark red and spilled poison purple from the feral hounds dried and thick to the papyrus, but he couldn't make heads or tails to where exactly they _were._

He thankfully did not have to make himself confront the other, er, "man", as Maxwell himself made a passing remark one morning, as the wind and snow gusted up in freezing temperatures and coated any visibility away from the fire, that once the storm died down they'd head towards main camp. That was assurance that the demon knew which way to go, and yet his nerves still kept Warly tense and strung tight, setting his jaw and counting out their supplies, the food resources still left, over and over and over again.

The organization, the sheer focus had the knot in his chest ease up, just for a little bit, up until he caught sight of that tall dark shadow shift or move about the camps perimeter and then his heart pounded in his throat and he was light headed and shaken once more.

It was absolutely terrifying, being in this situation. Every moment Warly expected to smell foul cigars, or thick shadows or that cloying flowery scent, corrupted and as if dirtied, vastly different from what the darkness and it's clear perfumed roses smelled like now, and every moment that he did not get this scent warning was another lead weight to shift on his already heavy laden shoulders. His head ached as the winter snows continued to fall, no sign of stopping, and it only got worse when he had to acknowledge the former Nightmare King.

How had any of the others done this? How could they have _lived_ with this constant threat, this constant cloud of foreboding, of faint memories of pain and suffering and torture and that slow drawl of a sadistically amused voice?

The old man did not sound the same, he carried no foul cloud of smells around him, not anymore, and yet his presence set Warlys teeth on edge and his hands shaking and phantom pains to flare up and sometimes, when the snowfall was really bad and they both had to hide away in the only remaining tent, he'd find himself frozen in complete and utter terror, curled up as far from the other as he could manage, expecting some horrible thing to happen that he couldn't even quite remember anymore.

Maxwell made no move against him, of course, not...not too obviously, anyhow. Was it all that bad, that sometimes Warly swore he felt a shadow graze all too close to his back, movement to sweep behind him, hover in silence before turning and walking away? To sometimes have to enter awkward, stilted conversation, spit out what little words he himself wished to offer and then suffer whatever quipping, biting remarks the demon chose to offer him for that moment?

To _feel_ that faint pressure of something brushing him by, the lightest touch, and then stir and boil an internal cocktail of fear and hot anger whenever he so much as caught sight of what looked to be a smirk, a familiar grin of too many sharpened teeth and upturn of plain _amusement_ at his discomfort? 

It wouldn't be too far fetched, Warly thought, to think the former Nightmare King found his badly hidden panic _pleasing_. The tropical islands did not get many visits from its King, but those times the demon did show his face, in fog or mist or dark of night, there was always the faint edge of wishing to be _entertained._

Perhaps he could have dealt with it, toughed out through this first long dragging Winter storm and waited until he was back in the safety of those he actually did trust and cared about. Warly knew he wasn't the best when put under pressure; before the Constant, before the haunting shadows and the terror he's had to live with for so long, once upon a time he used to be a master over himself and his life. It had been what he lived for, his purpose, his career, and yet it was now all gone, just like that, from the taloned hands of a demon who has kidnapped him from his old life and let this harsh limbo twist him into someone he knew he was not supposed to be.

Vaguely Warly remembered looking into the clearer fresh water pools found on the islands flocks of monkeys lived upon, listening to their curious chatter as he stared down into the eyes of the hollowed out, salt grizzled man he had become. Would his Maman even recognize him, were he to find his way home?

Long talks with Walani had helped ease some of that anxiety, she had a way with calming him down, and it wasn't just her expertise in giving hugs! Even Woodlegs broke down and had to be held every once in awhile, and Warly was not the best at giving comfort when he needed it himself so terribly; Walani, in all her seemingly lazy, go with the flow wisdom, had been a surprising anchor to help keep everyone afloat among the tropical isles.

And now, she was gone. All of them were, and Warly was here, surrounded by people he barely knew, and stuck in a too small camp with his former tormentor.

As the storm continued, a supernatural phenomenon that showed no sign of slowing down, no sign of easing up or letting them go, the ice blanketed days fell upon Warlys mind with ever harsher consequences.

Technically the food supplies were fine; heavy jerky slices and even some salted portions that he himself helped Wolfgang make, wrapped in papyrus parcel papers and enough to last days, weeks even. While it was survivable for a short time, the lack of variety, the bland flavor and harsh texture, it made the headache in Warlys skull ache something terrible. There wasn't much he could do while waiting for the storm to clear, only shovel snow out of the way of the tent and the campfire, clean his crockpot almost obsessively every day, try to find _something, anything_ to occupy his hands, keep him from thinking too much or too hard.

Because, come night and dark and cold, the former Nightmare King would stop hovering near the edges of the fire's heat and draw in closer. 

Warly did not ask how the wood supplies somehow restocked every day, did not ask about the faint sound of hatchet to bark under the snow winds gusts, the dark magic tang to the air or shimmer of second silhouette fluttering about through the storm's icy curtain. He did not make it worth his time, his flagging energy and mental threshold, to make himself speak to the demon.

Even if Maxwell sometimes slithered in a question or two, a snake thin complaint or statement that made Warlys shoulders tense, eyes narrow as he stared into the fire and ignored whatever jabbing words or antagonizing statements were made in his presence. 

He's been called rude, once or twice, way too many times by now, a snagging hint of aggression in the tone, but Warly has only broken a few times to answer back, voice clipped and simple and stiffly assuring that there would be no continued conversation after.

It was too early, he's not been here long enough to learn from the others how to get along with past demonic torturers; Warly, no matter his crumbling nerves, will not have anything to do with the former Nightmare King if he can help it.

This, unfortunately, did not take into account their full situation. Sharing the only tent, the whistling snow storm winds outside dowsing the fire, only thermal stones and old fur blankets for protection, made for Warly to be worse off as the days passed by.

More than a few times now he's found himself awaking with a very unwelcome presence wrapped about him, burrowed against his back in some blind bid for warmth. The demon's tall, immensely thin stature simply retained no heat, and even when Warly did not look he knew Maxwell shivered and trembled throughout the day, lacking the essential winter clothing.

He did not say anything about this, stuck in the same situation.

But this did not excuse the godawful mornings where he'd awaken from dark nightmares only to find himself trapped in an even worse way. In the back of his mind Warly knew he could easily escape, scramble away from the sharp talons and hot, slow wheezing breathes exhaled against his back, the nape of his neck or, even worse, pressed all too close into his hair, but terror shot through his half awake mental state and he...he would freeze up.

His heart would knock painfully in his chest and his breath would be caught in his throat and everywhere he was touched burned hellfire and flashes of terrorizing memories and pain and death, and Warly _could not fight it._

Eventually the demon would awaken, a spot of quiet before claws drew back from his personal space, and Warly wouldn't say a word, couldn't force a single sound from his choked up throat as he'd curl up and shiver and shudder and try to force the intruding memories away.

The panic held even when the former Nightmare King long left the tent, and Warly suffered through it for minutes, hours, until he could breath shakily again and his vision was smearing in a nauseating light headed toss up and his terror wasn't flushing chills up and down his spine, flooding his limbs and sending pins and needles to settle to his extremities.

And then he'd get up, wobble his way to the already set fire, and chew on more jerky.

Warly found himself missing the tropical islands so, so very terribly. He missed his friends, he missed his family, and all around Warly was having the most miserable time he's ever had in this terrible place.

It happened more and more often, as he stared into the fire and tried to ignore the snowflakes falling, landing and melting against his cold skin, that Warly found himself thinking back to what he's heard from the others of this land talk about, of their many adventures and journeys, of triumph and defeat. He had his own stories to tell, of traversing raging hurricane laden seas or climbing to the utter top of an active volcano, and yet, even at his worse in the tropical islands, never has Warly so deeply considered his situation to turn hopeless.

Wilson wasn't the only one to mention it, to even see value in killing oneself in some horrid situation or other; the little girl Wendy spoke of it with an unsettling morbid curiosity, the fire woman Willow brushed off the horror as if it was nothing, nodded her head along with an expression that somehow showed more exasperated irritation than the dreadful existentialism that such an act should hold, and even Wolfgang, as optimistic and friendly and helpful to Warly as the strongman was, spoke up in a laughing manner, as if remembering something _humorous,_ trapped within the Dragonflies maze of lava caves and steaming, curdling magma rivers for days upon end, so completely and utterly lost that there had been little choice to the large man's mind than use his effigy back at camp.

The storm did not look as if it would ever end, and this cloying dark presence, hovering close by, watching, as if waiting, was doing Warly in so badly that oftentimes he found himself huddled in front of the fire, head held in his hands, for _hours_. Not even trying to parse through their limited supplies, try to figure if boiling down the stringy meat would help flavor it better, nothing he put his time and thought to seemed to shake him out of the hopeless horror of what he lived with here, and Warly-

-Warly wanted to go home, and his memories, twisted by the lives he's lived within the Constant, mixed up both the time of Before and the tropical isles, and he _missed home._

There was nothing he could do, Warly knew, nothing but wait. Wait, and try to not show how hard his heart pounded in his chest, how choked his breathing got whenever the former Nightmare King drifted all too close to him.

Again, _how_ could the others have done this? Lived under these conditions, for so long? 

Why couldn't he just _get over it?_

It made him think of Walani, how she's asked him the same question before, so many times for so many other things, and he just never knew how to respond.

 _I could, before all this,_ he had told her once, and she had given him a sympathetic look, a nod of her head. She didn't understand, she said, but she'd try.

And she was gone now, and Warly felt very, very alone. He's not felt like this in a long, long time; the tropical islands often had them separated, sometimes he lived entire lifespans by his lonesome, but it's never felt _this_ bad.

Back then Warly knew he'd end up meeting one of them again, no matter what. In this place, deep down he knew that would be impossible.

He would never see his friends again, and while Warly knew it was not the former King's fault, not this one time, it did not stop him from putting the blame to the demon's shoulders. Maxwell had done so much wrong, far worse even, and yet Warly found it so terribly hard to hold the anger and hatred in his heart whenever he so much as caught a glimpse of the man.

Panic and freezing fear took its place, and Warly curled in on himself against the snow storms wrath and missed all that he had before this place.

As the days shortened the nights grew longer and longer under the winter storms strength. The nightmares hummed right on the edges of his vision now, those dark half invisible things that hovered out from the campfire’s light and watched, the falling gusts of snow falling through the forms Warly would catch sight of and then quickly look away from; the ones upon the tropical seas were far worse, but that didn’t change the fact that he knew how dangerous they still could be. 

They've drowned him before.

Sometimes the Nightmare King was there to watch.

As the storm blew overhead, as the dark just got darker and the winterscape became barren and even more hopeless, Warly found himself wondering if he was in that exact same situation right now.

Right up until the night the storms winds for once lessened, just a thick, quiet snowfall, and left the silent ambience to get even quieter.

Warly sat by the fire, fed it logs he knew the former demon had not chopped down by hand but with some other nefarious talent, and tried to ignore the shivers of the cold and faint shadows that flickered about the corners of his vision, the pale faded glow of eyes in the dark. He had one of the thermal stones, warm and yet slowly crumbling apart as the days crept by, but it would never compare to the comfort actual winter weathering clothing would have been.

He wished he had never found himself in this situation. He wished he had never arrived to this impossibly cold mainland. He wished he could go back home, and whether that came up as the tropical isles or his life Before this place Warly could no longer tell.

The cold made it hard to think clearly, and the crowding shadows even more so.

Snow crunched, crackled underfoot as the other inhabitant of the camp moved about, paced the edges of light from the fire, just barely keeping within safety. Warly did not waste his energy to even give him an acknowledging glance, only tended to the fire and nothing else.

He didn't want to turn in for tonight, not yet. His stomach was full of stale stringy jerky and his head buzzed with a low headache and far higher stress, and Warly wanted nothing to do with the old man that paced around the campfire like some trapped, unhinged animal. 

He felt as if he was still waiting for that other shoe to drop, yet knew that it didn't even exist anymore. 

They did not speak to each other, no words exchanged, and yet neither made the first move to retire to bed. Warly held the thermal stone close, ignored how cold his back was getting and how warm the fire had gotten as he fed it bigger and bigger, just enough light to expand the former demon's range of movement further _away_ from him.

Maybe this light snowfall, ice catching in his hair and beard, melting to his clothes, maybe it will let up in the morning. Maybe the storm will be gone and he can finally get out of here and away from this constant dread of freezing panic and terror and straining nightmares.

He knew what he felt crawling over his back and watching were just the eyes and shadows out in the night, and yet Warly couldn't help but believe it to be that scrawling amusing grin from his once tormentor, circling around him like a predator waiting for a single mistake and not the ragged back and forth pacing of mania and as strong of a need to get out as himelf.

All he could do was wait, and hope that tomorrow was better.

And then the air seemed to _move._

A sound, a low distant ambience, a ripple that could be felt, almost heard yet not, and Warly had to blink himself back to awareness, slowly sitting up as his brow furrowed and confusion settled in in him.

He knew the sounds of an approaching giant, has fought many before, lost and won against the massive monsters of the tropical islands, and yet this seemed...a bit off, somehow.

It took a second to notice that the constant background pacing had slowed, stilled as well, listening. The dark, tall silhouette of Maxwell lingered on the edges of the night and the fires light, not moving and staring into the dark, and Warly looked away from the sight and to the snow and ice coated trees, the dark shadows that stood stark out to the somewhat cloud covered night sky. 

Only a few stars poked out from up there, frazzled light that seemed to move and drift with a mind of its own, entirely different from the pitch black of the warm water islands skies. 

For some reason, it left Warly feeling unnerved at the unfamiliar sight.

The sound came again, a shifting, creaking noise, of trees bending, undergrowth trod upon and snow shaken off high branches, an uneven vibration, inhale and exhale of air. It became steady, an echo steadily arriving, and it was enough for Warly to slowly stand up, limbs stiff from sitting in the cold but still holding the warmed up thermal stone, staring out into the darkness for even a flicker of a hint to what was going on.

To what was heading towards them.

A low grumble vibrated through the air, thickened and heaved for breath, the sharper sounds of branches and leaves and falling snow shoved out of the way, and the near silent winter ambience broke when a low, moaning groan broke out over the night.

The snow continued to slowly fall long after the echo had faded, and yet Warly suddenly found himself confronted by the scowling demon of his worst nightmares.

"Move." Hissed at him, a dark whisper and then a sudden, firm sharp shove, and Warly stumbled back a step or two in bewilderment as Maxwell glared at him, moved as to get into his space once again-

Warly immediately backed up, the feeling of being herded rising horridly in his chest, but the former demon kept sweeping glances back behind him, checking once, twice, multiple times as Warly was ushered forward.

"What do you think you are doing-"

"Quiet!" 

Warly near jumped out of the way as he was snarled at, still in a hissing whisper, and they were nearing the edge of the firelight now and the low grumbling moan of sound, heavy snow crackling steps and drag of something amongst the tops of the trees, it just kept getting louder.

But Warly was not going to just be herded out into the dark to his death without objection and it took only a split second to make that decision before he turned on his heel, held his ground as that ghoulish wrinkled face scowled down at him, and for once his own anger threaded up and squashed down the vague panic and fear brought on by being so close.

"No! I am not going to just walk to my death like a blind lamb led by a butcher! You will back off right now or so help me-"

A rumble of sound, much, much louder than before, a pause even that had Warly silence himself, freeze at the ensuing quiet, and the former demon had frozen as well. The snarl had come back, for a brief moment at hearing him speak, but the instant that sound had come and then quieted, waiting, almost patiently, it was with a vague dawning surprise that Warly saw something that might have been genuine tense fear on the old man's face.

And then that twisted sharply into a very unamused expression, the night snow silence broke into more of those footsteps, heavy and weighted and yet, perhaps a bit quicker now.

"Use your thermal stone, you imbecile." The former demon spat at him, still low and whispered and yet the frustration couldn't quite hide the thin vein of masked panic underneath. "Or, stay here. It does not matter to me."

With that Warly stumbled to the side as Maxwell shoved him out of the way, and he caught sight of those gloved clawed hands drawing out a glowing warm stone from the jacket just as the former demon stepped out into the night.

The light from the stone was faint, not even enough to see the ground, but Warly could see its light illuminate the focused, drawn scowl of the old man's face as he quickly started out, in the complete opposite direction of the approaching sounds.

Whatever monstrosity was coming towards them, it was obviously unnerving enough to make the former Nightmare King take to the night with only a stone for protection.

Warly floundered, wasting precious time as he held his own thermal stone close, but in the end his few options were all he had.

Whatever was coming had scared off the creator of this place, and that was enough to make him hurriedly hold the stone out, shed light into the darkness, and quickly rush to catch up.

The snow was piled thick out here, and not being able to see where he put his feet made the way uneven and rough, but it surprisingly didn't take long to get back near the former demon. The ex Nightmare King seemed to have a bit of trouble traversing the snowdrifts, unbalanced and stumbling at points, but Warly did not speak a word as he trailed after him, taking glances towards the swiftly retreating camp and its low, warming light. 

The winter night, even with softer snowfall, was freezing, and already he was shivering, holding the thermal stone close and feeling it lightly burn his hands, warm his chest as he trudged on. This couldn't possibly be a viable way to survive out here, could it?

Even so, at this point if being led to his death was what was happening then Warly was now willing to try and just...let it happen. Of the two of them, it was obvious Maxwell would drop first, and he was willing to stake it out for the vague assurance of getting that satisfaction.

...Warly has never died to freezing before. The chill winds and ice hail from the tropics have taken him, but usually due to the severity of the hail storms and rough waters, not...not freezing.

As they walked, silent and with slow fading lights, even quicker fading warmth, it took a moment to notice that the sounds had changed.

There had been a pause, brief and sullen and quiet, before the rumble had resumed, the audible inhale and exhale of heavy breath picking back up, and the footsteps still came, louder and louder the closer whatever was making them got.

Warly couldn't time how long he struggled against the snow, but judging from how far the campfire light was they've barely put any distance between them and their starting point.

Maxwell seemed to have come to the same realization, and his hault, slow and unsteady as Warly kept a few feets distance from them, was marked by the thermal stone's light showing the drawn harsh scowl on his face.

The former demon looked about, brow low as the scowl became more of a nervous snarl, searching around them in their lack of visibility.

"...-must have caught our scent."

Warly only heard the tail end of some mumbled muttering, and he was damn right confused about all this but the breathing was getting louder, the footsteps steady and unyielding, and the light of his stone was washing sickly yellow now, not quite as burningly hot as before.

The former demon started to move again, but not the quick rushing pace of earlier. Instead, he circled, held his own stone out for some light and squinted about at the snow drifts and trees around them, and his own unsteady footsteps seemed so loud alongside the thunderous ones heading towards them. Warly stood there, he had no idea what to do or what he _should_ do, before Maxwell made a sudden hiss of exclamation.

Enough of a discomforting sound to send a shiver up Warly's back and make him take a half step back, a flash of fear and crowding close shadows in the pitch black night, but he didn't get time to acknowledge it before the former Nightmare King was once more barging into his space.

"If you don't want to meet an unpleasant end I suggest you get moving, pal." 

That just made the faint tints of panic and half memory fears worse, but then Warly was being ushered forward once again, stumbling through the snow and shivering, the cold air clouding up at his every shallow, harsh breath, but when he shakily held his thermal stone out to see the sight was a bit more welcome than any other so far.

A somewhat hollowed out tree, still bearing the marks of past lightning strike and fire across its bark, but the snow inside was thin and its twisted trunk made a makeshift roof, shelter from the snowfall, and it was enough for Warly to stumble on forward without prompting and climb in.

The pine was huge, old and mostly dead, the crunch of dried needles underneath the thin few inches of snow, but there was enough room for both men to slide in and hunker down, the footsteps now heavier, deep in the air and shivering through the snow blanketed earth, the breathing much, much closer in the gusts of warm humid air that must be escaping whatever monstrous mouth was heading towards them.

The comfort of being able to sit, rest his cold legs and huddle down to conserve his own body heat and energy was brushing roughly with the pure _discomfort_ of having to sit next to the former demon, who curled his own long limbs close and held his thermal stone underneath his suit jacket, not a single glance to Warly as he stared out the jagged split entrance to their temporary shelter.

The thermal stones lights were softer now, just barely spilling over the edge of the trees split opening and across the messy snow, and Warly leaned away as best as he could, his only option to keep distance between them. This situation had suddenly turned far worse, his heart hammered in his throat and the shivering had gotten bad, a cold sweat breaking out as he grit his jaw and kept his gaze away from the dark thin shadow curled up beside him, and Warly was suddenly struck by the similarity of being trapped in the tent when the snow storm had turned into a full throttle blizzard, too close to his nightmares and yet facing the freezing cold as his only other option.

He should have taken the ice and snow way out, and if it ever happened again he would do so; death did not look so scary when confronted by his former tormentor and the amused shadows.

This time, however, leaving the safety of the tree didn't look like an option he could will himself to take; Warlys limbs shook too much, breathing rapid, fast and shallow puffs of air, ignoring the prickling of being too close, of being trapped too close, of having no other option but to _sit here and bare it-_

And then the footsteps outside halted.

There was silence, thick silence as Warly trembled and stared out into the pitch black night, not enough light to even look upon what had been tracking them. 

A deep, almost wet sounding inhale of air, gasping out a slow rattle of an exhale, and very suddenly the tree groaned.

Massive claws had reached around it, giant bone thumbs curling about the opening, a sudden stinking wash of humid air, a dizzying taint of peppermint and charcoal, chocolate and sulfur, and Warly stared, flabbergasted, as something huge and red furred and hideous stuck its snout close against the trees entrance wound.

The scar torn face twitched, mange and old blister ridden wounds scrawled with what looked to be yellow twine, and the damp nostrils flared, the slightest shift as its mouth opened as best as it could. More string was dug into its lips, into the flesh of its jaws, and saliva, tinted yellow and pus white, dribbled from its trapped maw as it sucked in a deep, shuttering breath.

Beside him, Warly could feel the former demon keep completely still, frozen at his side, and all he could do was stare at the abomination before them, the great lean of its weight against the tree making the wood creak and groan.

Sounds, almost as if words, poured from its oozing mouth, the thick dark flash of a trapped tongue slapping wetly from behind its cage of twine and teeth and abscessed lips, and Warly stared at it in bewilderment as a language he had no understanding or knowledge of slithered through the air with its every breath.

He didn't know how long he sat there, listening to this thing as it spoke, as it slicked drool down into melting the snow and dousing the pine needles underneath, and only the snout could fit into the trees entrance but the red flaring fur puffed outwards, hinting to a much larger beastly body that backed the monsters face. Its skin strained and pulled, rolls of furless wounds glistening and seeping pus and other unsanitary fluids, soaking through the thick yellow strings that criss crossed its face, and Warly just-

-he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

Eventually its words came to an end, the lump of the thermal stone in Warlys lap growing colder by the second, the light now so faint that only the briefest glimpse of red fur and yellowed twine, teeth and tusks flashed through the darkness, and with a heaved groan the snout retreated into the darkness. The massive claws scrapped across the trees bark, dragged and splintered the wood, but they too disappeared soon enough.

Warly shakily sucked in a breath, hesitant and confused and a bit light headed, an ache pounding behind his eyes and making the little light they had left colorless and bleached, and the silence held as a new, faint chill wind blew out in the open air before them.

It was very, very quiet, the wind starting with a new vigor now into hearty gusts of snow and ice and chill frost. 

Warly looked upon his thermal stone, near all light gone now, and it's deep inner warmth was nonexistent, sucked away by the cold air.

With a dawning sense of both clarity and calm, Warly realized that he was going to die out here.

And then there was sudden movement, a heavy shake as the tree groaned and vibrated as if under great stress and weight, the faint sound of almost - giggles? Krampi, out here? - and then something heavy dropped down from above.

Warly yelped, tried to lean out of the way as the thing flopped down half atop him, and then it fell to the ground before them, string loosening about its top and spilling out-

Light.

Round glowing orbs, white and clear, and it took a moment for him to recognize that these were the bulbs of the cave flowers the others talked about, what usually fueled the lanterns hung about camp.

Warly sat, stunned and even more confused, and his thermal stone had gone dark and cold but he could see now just fine.

Forgetting the situation, forgetting who was beside him and what had just visited, spoken, and then gifted them both, Warly reached out and cupped one of the glowing bulbs in his hands. 

It felt almost soft, a membrane about its surface that his calloused fingers rubbed carefully against, and it drove away the darkness somewhat better than any thermal stone, cleared and visible and almost calming.

A thought caught him, and Warly hesitated a moment before slowly raising it to his ear.

Not unlike a seashell, it had a sound - a low, deep ambience, a buzzing rumble and the slow, shifting heavy movement of something far, far deep below, depths and abyss and darkness.

Unnerving, and yet entirely, completely normal in this chaotic, confusing situation. 

It was almost humorous, how the lines connected the dots in his head, and Warly made a sound that might have been a chuckle, fringing on mania and hysteria and overblown stress shock.

They had just gotten a visit from the Constants version of Santa Claus. It must be Christmas.

If Warly had been in a better place, he would have found this horrifying. Right now, however, it was hilariously terrifying.

His chuckle started to tumble into something more panicked, sharply inhaling and fighting the tightening in his chest, in his mind, and Warly had to close his eyes, hold the light bulb close and try to calm himself as his breathing went ragged.

It was hard to concentrate on some half remembered advice his old, now lost friend had once given him, but Walani had a way with keeping calm, with helping settle the panic and anxiety and fear. The winds outside, if he took in a shaking breath and let it out with all the strain he could push out of himself, almost sounded like the waves of a tide coming back in, washing over the beach, taking away the signs of struggle and life and smoothing the pebbly sand over once more.

He didn't know how long it took, to settle himself, his mind, pull back from that dark edge that threatened complete and utter madness if he didn't fight it back, but Warly focused on the wind waves and blocked out everything else, just breathed.

It was the cold that made him aware once more, nipping and biting at his fingers, which were curled over the light bulb, cupping it close and tight. The bag still sat where it had fallen, bulbs still scattered and the storm still raging just outside the tree.

And the former Nightmare King was still beside him.

Warly took in a steadying breath, the wavering of shadows still just there, waiting for him to break, but light meant life and it would not be the dark to kill him tonight so he cautiously turned his head to have a look.

The former demon was still frozen, stiffly holding himself, but head bowed, face curved into a snarl, pitch black evil eyes shut tight. His hands were curled into fists on his lap, legs and knees drawn up, and Warly sat there for a few moments and realized the old man was _shaking._

The sharp wheezed breathes, shuttered and sucked in fast and shallow, were at odds to the gusts of wind outside, the near silent nightly ambience, and while Warly was still recovering from his own personal abyss there was a certain feeling, a threat in the air that sent shivers up his spine, going tense and alert at the foreboding.

And then the old former demon let out a weak ragged breath, curled in on himself even closer, put his head into his hands and exhaled a sobbing hiss of a sound.

Warly froze, a dizzying mixture of bewilderment and leftover panic and sickening stressing terror, anxieties all wrapping in knots to his chest and trying to squeeze him into hysterics. His calming technique, learned from Walani so long ago, was keeping him up and stable enough, but now those half remembered sounds of sea waves washing over a shore were being overturned by the sound of his living nightmare losing it.

It was completely, horridly unnerving, in a disjointed way that made Warly sick to his already nauseous stomach, and rationally a part of him _knew_ he wasn't the only one suffering through this, that being trapped by the snow for days, weeks on end with unwanted company was not just his individual experience, but-

-this small piece of himself that felt some vague form of pity was weak for a very good reason. Warly stared down at his former tormentor, near silent hissing, snarl sounding sobs of distress, and felt no sympathy.

He didn't think he ever could.

Silently he turned his head away, held his jaw tight and forced himself to not listen in, not care, and it was almost alarmingly easy to do so.

What did that say of him, that he had no pity for another human being? Then again, was Maxwell even considered a human any longer? Did the former Nightmare King _deserve_ Warly's pity?

Lingering on that shadowy line of mania and madness and his own anxieties, Warly could only close his eyes for a few moments more, focus on the wind, the waves he was so used to hearing, count out his every inhale, exhale, and when he opened his eyes once again the light bulbs were still lit, the snowstorm still gusting, and the ex demon had seemingly gone silent.

Not calm, the brief, semi disgusted glance that Warly gave him enough to answer that, but there were no more of those pitiful, hated sounds.

Warly focused his gaze to the bag, the thick dusty fabric, and when he shifted and laid it upright, widened the opening and its loose string tie, he found that it wasn't just light bulbs that had been gifted to them.

Half of his anxious mind wondered what had caused them both to get on the "nice" side of the obvious Santa Claus rip off monstrosity the Constant held, but the other half was more overwhelmed by the sudden warmed fabrics and clothes, hats and cloaks, that he pulled out from the sack.

It smelled of charcoal and burnt cinnamon, a thick clotting sickly scent that might have been molding powdercake, but the wobbly crooked smile still spread on his face when Warly tugged out each article of clothing, the fabric warmed unnaturally and yet wonderful to his shiveringly cold hands and skin.

Two pairs of rabbit fur gloves, a thick beefalo cloak and something even softer, thicker almost, hide he couldn't think of a name to just yet, and even hats, a catcoon fur made one and the heavier beefalo and threaded silk winter beanie, and out from tangled within them all were more light bulbs, fresh and glowing and washing the inner tree trunk in bright, clear light.

The terror beside him seemed somewhat diminished now, compared to the ghastly monster that was a Santa Claus, and that thing had handed over gifts! Warly still felt completely and utterly confused at this turn of events, but he was already wrapping the beefalo cloak about himself, pulling the gloves on and settling the colorful hat and its pompom atop his head, and everything near immediately felt so much better.

It was still snowing hard and the light bulbs would eventually go out, he'd need to get back to the campfire and its light soon enough, but hugging the furs close and feeling actually _comfortably warm_ for once was an incredible weight off his stressed out mind.

Coming face to face with a new monster, a gift giving one that smelled of holiday cheer and rotting stenching death, somehow made past monsters look even more pitiful.

Maxwell had not moved much as Warly had adorned himself with the winter clothing, curled in on himself and finally seeming to calm his own hissing breathing, the sound discomforting but not in a fear faint way now.

Irritation took the open place, and Warly glanced at the other man, _former_ demon, _former_ Nightmare King, _nothing_ compared to whatever monstrosities roamed this mainland Constant, and a part of him knew his fears and anxieties would always be there, the memories would always be there and he _never_ wanted to be in a situation like this with this man ever again, nor did he ever wish to speak or work or engage with him in any way.

And he casually tossed the other cloak atop him, along with the other pair of gloves and catcoon cap.

He didn't like Maxwell, not at all, and he felt no sympathy for him.

But, maybe a bit of pity. For one reason or another, the Santa Claus monster had terrified the old man, and if there was one thing Warly knew well it was fear.

The former demon flinched, froze at the sudden weight of things thrown at him, before he shakily uncurled and silently started to don them as well, dark dull eyes glazed and head bowed.

Warly did not care to wonder what he had just gone through, or what he had been thinking, or anything at all to do with Maxwell; the old man had seeked safety from the monster and had dragged Warly along, whether that be due to a former controlling nature or actual genuine concern Warly did not care, and this seemed more than enough as paying back the due.

Though, being former Nightmare King, there was a lot more he owed Warly than Warly would ever even vaguely owe Maxwell.

Still, the gift of clothing was something good that came from all this. It meant Warly might have a chance of just taking the last of the supplies and having the old man lead him towards the main camp, weather the cold snow storms and finally get out of this horrible situation.

Once this was all done and over with, the both of them back in the group at camp, back with their friends, or in Maxwells case "acquaintances", Warly was not going to speak to the old man for a long, long time.

And he did not feel a single regret in doing so.


End file.
